2016 Was a Real Jim Dandy!

I spent a lot of 2016 being a total mutant.  Like laying in my bed for 12 days straight and then finally getting up to lay in my recliner, dubbed Black Beauty.  Obviously this was all cancer related and I wasn't slothing around like I dreamed of doing back in 2010, 2011, 2012, 2013,2014, and 2015 when my kids were babies, toddlers, threenagers, and preschoolers.  Seriously.  I remember getting sick probably back in 2012 when the Triple Threat was 1,2, and 3.  I wished upon a star that I would be diagnosed with pneumonia and get hospitalized so I could rest and have a CNA bring me a tray of mashed potatoes and meatloaf from the hospital cafeteria.  And in my dream the medical professional wore seasonally appropriate scrubs--like Charlie Brown and the Peanuts gang Valentine's style, because people that accessorize according to holidays just seem to care a smidgen more--and she or he would bring me a can of 7UP with a straw and fluff my pillows to make me more comfortable.  But that was just a pipe dream.  And I did get pneumonia.  But there was no hospitalization or rest.  Ol' Heysoos was apparently saving up my sick time to carry over to 2016!

So here I am on the last day of 2016 reflecting on what a dandy of a year it has been and what I should write about.  I want to thank everyone that has supported my family this year--but I am so bad at being sentimental and worry that it comes off as fake.  I always feel that way about saying religious things also.  Like talking about praying and God's blessings and all that jazz.  I believe in them and think about them, but always feel like I sound like a phony when I say them.  Weird, because I know that the Lutheran sparkle in me is always shining.  As a side note,  I don't feel odd breaking out the Nicene Creed by heart because that is just impressive. But please, please know that we appreciate all of the cards, gift cards, monetary gifts, race running, t-shirt and bracelet buying, and meal training this year.  We truly could not have made it this far, this smoothly without you all.  Aaaand I have a cry lump in my throat as I type this because it so unbelievable to me that I have just spent nine months battling cancer and that so many people have been so NICE to us.

So cheers to 2016 and on to 2017 tomorrow.  I still have a long treatment road ahead of me.  I still can't go back to work.  Which sometimes makes me feel awkward about going out and doing things.  So here is a peek into a cancer patient's head.  At least this cancer patient's noggin!  Here are the things that make me feel bad that probably shouldn't make me feel bad, but they still do.

1.  Drinking a beer while watching a Buckeye game.  I feel bad because I think that people are staring at me and thinking that I should be drinking a kale and blueberry smoothie.

2.  Taking my kids to theme parks.  I feel bad because I think that people are wondering how I can afford to do that.  Because we all know that Sea World is freaking expensive!  But we go because we have free season passes.  Perks of being a teacher and having littles.  It still makes me feel awkward to post pics with Shamu on social media though.

3.  Again, taking my kids to theme parks.  I feel bad because I think that people wonder how I have the energy to do it.  Truth is, I cancer pranced my way into getting fast passes for rides for the kiddos.  Shameless, I know.

4.  Not working.  I know that I look healthy.  I'll give a big round of applause to the 30 pounds cancer put on me for giving me that healthy glow.  Not really.  I'll give my now  morbidly obese middle finger to those 30 pounds. But I hear all the time how someone has a cousin  that worked her way all the way through chemo, radiation, and surgery.  But I couldn't.  I couldn't walk three steps to the bathroom without help.  So I guess that means that I won't make the cancer All-Star Team like cousin Tina.  

5.  Being alive.  I'm no psychologist, but I think this is known as "survivor guilt."  Folks from near and far have done so much for me and my family because I had such a whopper of a breast cancer diagnosis.  But now I am feeling better and feel guilty going out and doing anything because I worry that people think they gave time and money to me for nothing because I look and act just fine and dandy.  What goes through my butch lookin' head is that "these people thought I was going to die and those poor little children of hers will be motherless..."  And then here I am drinking a beer at the Buckeye game!  I probably need a psychologist for feeling bad about not dying....

6.  Not getting all of my Christmas cards sent out.  I had visions of thanking everyone via Christmas card this year.  But I had to go to radiation.  And get injections.  And then I would be so tired that Black Beauty would call my name and I would fall asleep before the Young & the Restless was over. So I still have like 100 cards to send out.  Whaddya think--should I still send them out or would that be tacky?  I LOVE sending cards, so it's not a chore that I hate doing.  I love addressing them with my red Pilot pen and stamping those babies.  I just plum ran out of time.  And now I worry that wonderful people feel bad that they didn't get a card.

There are about a bajillion other things that I worry about that I know I probably should not worry about--but it's time for me to get ready for that Buckeye game.  One would think that I would be ready for 2016 to be over, but a part of me wants to hang on to this sweet year.  Because 2016 made me realize how truly blessed I am with friends and family.  And yes, I still feel awkward writing about how "blessed" I am, but it is nothing but the truth.  Thanks for the memories 2016!

These pics were taken by my dear friend Miranda Lawson.  They were taken before my 2nd chemo treatment in April when I didn't know what was coming.  I kind of feel a little bad for this happy lady...because she didn't know what $%*# storm was coming!

Are You There God? It's Me, Jill

When I was in the 5th grade, our class had Nurse Knepley come in to the St. Paul Lutheran cafeteria to give us girls a talk about "menzstroooayshun."  We were horrified. Especially after a tampon was dunked into a glass of water to show us how it expanded.  We were even more aghast when she told us that the clinic had maxi pads in case any girl needed them.  Pretty sure we were all petrified of ever needing them because we had all read the Judy Blume classic, Are You There God?  It's Me, Margaret.  And the sanitary napkins mentioned in that book involved a belt that had to be connected to aforementioned pad.  No. Thank. You.  I would not be needing any of THOSE maxi pads.  I'm pretty sure none of us felt any better after watching a movie about "growing up" starring Aileen Quinn, the girl who played little orphan Annie in the original movie.  I remember thinking that this puberty business was not for me.  Or Annie either.  I liked her better tap dancing with Daddy Warbucks more than I did her as a junior higher telling me about armpit hair.    

That puberty lesson was round about 1986.  Thirty years later I was sitting in a chemo chair about to get a menopausal injection with a needle the size of a roofing nail thinking almost the same thing.  "This menopause business is not for me!"  And just like in the fifth grade, I was sent home with a pamphlet detailing all of the hormonal changes that were going to wreak havoc on this 40-year-old body.  Except this time I didn't hide the pamphlet in the back of my drawer like I did in my tween years.  I actually threw my menopause packet away, because, hello, we have the internet now!  I don't need to keep those papers to reference when I can reference WebMD!  

So why menopause, why now?  Because my cancer is hormone driven.  I need to have my estrogen supply turned off.  I had to have it turned off immediately so that I can prepare my body for a chemo trial I am going to begin after radiation.  I need to be in full 70-year-old grandma mode for it to work.  My oncologist has never done this before.  He said that there have been great results for this trial that was done in Japan.  But the participants were mostly Triple Negative Cancer patients.  And Japanese.  (Most young women are Triple Negative, I am not.  I have Invasive Ductal Carcinoma ER positive.)  He brought my case to Moffitt Cancer Center to see if this would be a good thing to attempt.  He told me that often times doctors tend to want to "overcure" patients who are young, good looking, and fun.  I of course told him to "keep going"  with the compliments!  But apparently that is why he brought my case to Moffitt.  So the doctors there wouldn't know me, my family story,  or my face and could give an unbiased opinion.  At least that is what he told me!  I am sure he was just trying to make me feel better! 

So that is the plan.  I meet again with my medical oncologist tomorrow and start radiation on Monday November 28th.  Menopause side effects I am dealing with right now are hot flashes-- like trapped in a used Ford Fiesta with no a/c in August in Southwest Florida hot--a smidgen of irritability, getting fatter by the second, and joint pain.  Crazy joint pain.  I have never had achy joints.  But holy cow I feel like the President of the Arthritis Club of the World.  In addition to still trying to recover from my bilateral mastectomy.  That is still rough sledding.  But really, it is nothing compared to the man-cold that my husband is dealing with tonight!

Freezing up my injection site at the Cay West office where I had my chemo.  The needle had these pellets in them that send your body reeling into menopause.  But at least I don't need to use those maxi pads with the belts!

My Drive-By Double Mastectomy

I am not a medical professional.  But I lived with one for 18 years.  My mom is a retired RN, and my sister-in-law has her doctorate in Physical Therapy.  Also, my cousin Jana is a Physician.  None of this is pertinent to the story.  I just thought it would give me some medical street cred and class me up a bit.  Because what I am writing about is mostly about medicine and medical trends.  And this post also has a whole lot to do with insurance.  And a heaping spoonful to do with politics.  And of course, everything to do with money.  In my opinion.  And just to be clear, I am not an expert on any of these topics.  But I have become a bit of an expert on being a patient.  The purpose of this post is to urge breast cancer patients to think twice in regards to same day outpatient surgery.

Those of you that know my writing know that I stay as far away as possible from confrontational or negative topics.  Because I like being happy!  And I love laughing!   But I am almost a month out from my "drive-by" mastectomy and it is time for me to write it all down before my pain killers kill my memory as well.

Here is my breast cancer story in a (buckeye) nut shell.  I was diagnosed on my 40th birthday with Invasive Ductal Carcinoma that was hormone positive.  It was bad.  7 cm tumor and it had spread to my lymph nodes.  I completed 20 weeks of chemo and the next plan of action was a bilateral mastectomy with immediate reconstruction, followed by radiation, hysterectomy, and removal of the ovaries.  My oncologist has now added more chemo (in pill form--a trial) after radiation.  So basically, I didn't just have a "dash" of cancer.  I had the whole enchilada!

I have to give a shout out to my medical team thus far.  Many, many people wanted me to go to Moffitt, the renowned cancer center in Tampa.  But I had a preschooler, kindergartener, and 1st grader all at home that needed their mama.  So I didn't want to have to drive 2 hours north for chemo and doctor's appointments.  Plus, I have the most common kind of breast cancer out there.  So it wasn't like I was a medical mystery that my doctors couldn't figure out.  I loved them all!  Especially my easy on the eyes oncologist!  I was happy with my decision to stay and get my treatment at home.

Delighted with my care up until surgery time.  I received my surgery instructions in the mail and noticed that my surgery was in an out patient surgery center.  Right away I was alarmed.  I need to note that a few months earlier I "woke up" and felt everything in the middle of my port surgery.  Crazy pain and they knocked me out right away.  However, when I woke up after the surgery was complete, I couldn't breathe.  They took X-rays and sent me home not breathing fully.  But that's another story for another day.  My point is that I had a smidge of anxiety having another out patient surgery.  I always calmed myself down by thinking "Girl, you had three C-sections in two and a half years and you recovered great!"  I recovered "great" in a hospital setting where I had a pain pump to get the agony under control and nurses around to help me when I continually vomited from the anesthesia.

So I voiced my concerns to my surgeons.  They were sympathetic and understanding.  Scheduling was blamed for doing the procedure outpatient.  They couldn't schedule me in a hospital.  So a nurse called me and we talked on the phone for over an hour.  I told her I didn't want to end  up like Joan Rivers, dead in a surgery center.  She assured me that mastectomies were done there everyday and I was going to be just fine.  If I wasn't ready to go home, they would transport me to a hospital for an over night stay.  I asked how long they would give me to recover before they sent me home, and she said "Probably an hour."  I was astounded and said, "That's all?!"  She then said "Maybe two hours."  The nurse said that I would be surprised at how fast I would recuperate.  Unfortunately I believed her.

Surgery day.  I'm calm and ready to go.  I generally don't get too worked up about things.  I'm not a cryer.  Actually, I'm kind of like a robot and am a champ at holding in emotions.  My husband and I drive to the surgery center.  I get a little irritated at him because he decides to stop at the gas station to get coffee and now we might be late!  We walk into the center, sign in, and wait with all of the geriatrics there to have bunions removed.  15 minutes later they call my name and tell me I'm in the wrong spot.  Of course.  We walk half a mile around the building to the correct spot.  The first thing they do is collect money.  Lots of it.  That I wasn't supposed to pay because I hit my deductible months ago.  But who cares about feeding my kids, right?  I'll get that money back three years from now.

After they steal my grocery money for three months, they start prepping me for surgery.  The LPN prepping was a doll.  Asking questions about my kids and attentively listened to me ramble on about them.  The anesthesiologist came in and told me she was going to do everything she could to make sure I wasn't sick, in pain, etc.  She even told me that my friend Michelle's anesthesiologist brother called her and told her to take extra good care of me.  My surgeon came in, talked to me, and made me very comfortable.  Everyone was great.  The surgery went great.  I have the best surgeons out there.

The problems started after I came out of my anesthesia fog.  Obviously I was in pain.  I still had an IV in so they pumped me full of pain meds.  My brain was not all there and working properly.  What I do know was that I got a bad apple recovery nurse.  She wouldn't respond to me when I told her I wasn't ready to go home.  She just told me to drink some water and eat a cracker.  I kept falling asleep with my cracker in my hand and partially chewed cracker in my mouth.  Next thing I know she told me that I was leaving.  I told her I wasn't ready.  She told me I was fine and would feel better once I got in my own bed.  She made me get out of bed to go to the bathroom.  I couldn't walk and was starting to feel sick.  In the bathroom I started crying a little and apologized to the nurse and told her "Sorry, I'm not usually like this!"  She did not respond and did not make me feel better in any way.  After the bathroom they put me in my pajamas that I brought.  My pain was really starting to increase and I was getting sicker.  My recovery nurse put a big ace bandage around my chest.  She put it on backwards and another nurse had to correct her.  Again I told her I wasn't ready to go.  She told me I was fine.  Or something like that.  It was obvious she was a new nurse, wanted to go home, and this was just a job for her.  But let me make it clear.  I love nurses and they work harder than anyone.  It is a job I definitely could not do.  My family is chock full of nurses and I have dozens of nurse friends that love their jobs and it is definitely their calling in life.  My luck, I just got a recovery nurse that was having a bad day.

I was barfing in a bag when I was forced into my car.  Just when rush hour was starting.  I was crying, in pain, vomiting, and had to put a seat belt on.  I know they leaned my seat back.  I remember the painful starting and stopping of street lights.  I remember excruciating turns on the 25 minute ride back home.

Once I got home the searing, stabbing pains started.  Take my breath away, most horrific pain I have ever felt in my life.  And it didn't stop.  Then I started vomiting again.  All over my bed and myself.  Now I had to change my clothes and my sheets.  Not a big deal.  Except it is when you have just had body parts amputated and expanders put in under your chest muscles 3 hours earlier.  Indescribable pain all night long.  I remember crying and not being able to make a sound it hurt so bad.  I was terrified my kids would see me like that and kept asking my husband if they were all right. At least I think I did.  I remember thinking it.  Thank goodness for my mom and husband.  My mom is a nurse and knows what she is doing.  My husband did what she told him.

I kept asking for pain relief.  The only thing that was prescribed to me was a low dose Vicodin.  It did zero for my pain.  At one paint, maybe it was 2 in the morning, or maybe it was just 8 pm, my husband, Clay, wanted to take me to the ER it was that bad.  I refused because I couldn't bear getting in a car or moving.  I also didn't want to wait with a bunch of folks that stopped in because they had a cold.  Or needed to get some Oxies.

Bottom line was it was a horrific experience.  I'm pretty sure it would have been less painful to be chased down and ax- murdered by Chucky, Jason, and Freddy Krueger.  This all could have been avoided if I could have spent the night in a hospital to get my pain and vomiting under control.  Even just one night. 

But the fun didn't stop there.  Morning rolled around and a home health nurse showed up to take my blood pressure.  That's all.  My mom emptied my drains and checked bandages and all that gross stuff that I can't imagine doing without losing my cookies.  Meanwhile I am still in debilitating pain.  And now they tell me I have to get in the car AGAIN to have my plastic surgeon check me.  I lost it and refused to go. I cried.  I physically could not imagine getting in a car and driving 25 minutes to the doctor.  Side note.  I live in Florida.  There are lots of snowbirds here who cannot drive.  There is a multitude of slamming of the breaks while driving in SW Florida because a Crown Victoria cut you off.  So it was going to be a painful ride.  And I knew it.  Somehow they got me into my '05 Ford Expedish.  I don't really remember the ride I was in so much pain.  I know I could barely move and had to be held up as I walked into the office.  I must have looked like a monster because the faces in the front office were shocked.  They put me right into a room.  Where I almost started barfing.  Then sat down on the table and said I was going to pass out.  And I did.  I don't remember anything else about that visit.  All I know is that I was prescribed stronger pain pills.  But now I had to drive home.  I would rather dig my eyeballs out with rusty spoons than have to get in a car and drive again.  But I survived.  

This is a really long post.  And if you've made it this far, THANK YOU!  The message I want to get across is, think twice about being talked into a same-day outpatient mastectomy.  Especially if you are young.  My surgeon said that her younger patients seem to have more pain than the older ones.  It seemed like everyone thought I would do great because I was so young and healthy.  It was not the case.  I regret not having this done in a hospital setting and am scared to have any more surgeries done there.  I am sure that some women have done great with this sort of surgery, and it is a big trend in mastectomy surgeries to go home the same day.  I just want my story out there.  This outpatient "drive-by" surgery is not alway rainbows and kitty cats.  Sometimes it's torture.

Me going into surgery.  Before I knew what I was going to have to go through.  My brother jokingly put this on facebook.  "This surgery is soon to be a distant mammary!  Breast joke ever!"  I said that attempting to keep my spirits up!

De-Klaused

I am no longer a hipster dude.  Why?  Because my beard has disappeared.  Thanks to the miracle workings of fine friend and aesthetician Mary Kern, my face is as soft as the red ripened skin of a beefsteak tomato. (Like how I did that? An Honorary Tomato Queen should never forget that if it weren't for V8 and tomato soup she would be a nothing.  So tomato references are a must!)

You may be wondering how I ended up as the bearded lady.  Apparently it is because of the chemo shutting down my ovaries or something like that.  All I know is that I woke up one day a couple weeks ago with white fur mutton chops on the sides of my face.  The chops then made their way down to my chinny chin chin.  I was officially Santa Klausing.  And make up only enhanced its furriness.

My face carpet came on very suddenly, and I wasn't sure if it would fall out again.  Because Taxol apparently can make your hair grow in and then fall out again a while later.  So I wasn't about to pay a gajillion dollars to get my face threaded.  Also because I am terrified of the pain that was inflicted upon me the last time I had my eyebrows and 'stache threaded.   The Middle Eastern woman performing the task continually yelled at me to "Stop crying!  You OKAY!  Stop crying!  You have very hairy face!!  NO WAX!"  So I just thanked my lucky charms that my fur face was blonde and continued on living the dream.

And obviously by "living the dream" I meant going to Ohio and the Henry County Fair for a milkshake and pork on stick.  I figured I would fit right in with the Hank County carnies.

 But then my lifelong friend Rachel stopped over and got a gander at my face.  She hadn't seen me in a while as she lives in NW Ohio and I live pretty darn close to Cuba.  I can't remember, but she might have actually felt my face.  And then told me I needed to have Mary dermaplane my face velvet off. Stat.

Of course, I'm no "Real Housewife of Cape Coral," so I had no clue what dermaplaning was about.  But I agreed to it.  And Rachel and Mary had me scheduled for an in home dermaplaning session within minutes.  I had obviously scared the bejeeezus out of my dear friend Roach with my testosto-riffic new look.

It's a good thing I trust Miss Mary.  Because dermaplaning is this...taking a scalpel to your face and scraping off all hair and dead skin.  Pretty sure I was her dream client because I'm sure she could really get a sense of satisfaction by seeing the progress of her work.  All I know is that I looked off to the side as my face was being reborn and saw a snowball of fur.  Like a big snowball.  Seriously, like the base of a big a$$ snowman.  But my face!  My face was as smooth as a grape!  A grape tomato! And what a relaxing experience.  Like I was at the Ritz Carlton!

So a great big honkin' thank you to Mary Kern for making me female again!  Now all you have to do is come down to Florida every month to make sure Jill stays Jill and doesn't morph into Bill!  

At the Henry County Fair.  Shortly after this, my phone died and I couldn't get any close up shots of my de-fuzzed face.  

Roid Rage

I get lotso compliments on my positive attitude regarding my recent cancer situation.  And sometimes it makes me feel a little Milli Vanilli-ish.  As in I kind of feel like a fraud, because I am not always feeling like rainbows and sunshine.  But I'm also vibing Mils Vanils, because well, I'm a helluva good dancer.  Just like the Grammy-giving-back- lip- synching sensations.  Seriously.  You should have seen me in my heyday at Ohio State bars like the Jailhouse and Not Al's and Out R Inn.  It's a shame cell phones and social media weren't around to capture those moments...(Thank you sweet baby Hey-soos!)

But I digress.  I must release the nagging Catholic within me and confess.  I am filled with some sort of newly brewed rage.  I am going to go ahead and blame the steroids that are being pumped into me--because steroids are my go-to for blaming anything that is wrong in my life.  I've put on 16 pounds since my cancer diagnosis--it's the steroids' fault.  Can't sleep at night--steroids.  Muscle spasms and night sweats?  Roids.  I'm terrible at cornhole.  You know whose fault that is...the beers.  Which by the way I have not been able to enjoy since my 40th birthday.  Another thing that makes me mad.

Mad.  Ticked.  Irritated. Apoplectic.  Fit to be tied.  Roid Rager.  All words that can be used to describe me on days that end in Y.  Not all day, my cheesed off thoughts happen in bursts.  Usually when someone does something really annoying.  Like walking too loud on the tile floor.  Or asking me if I want a sandwich.  Or putting lettuce on aforementioned sandwich.  Or when I run out of floss.  Obviously this is some seriously serious stuff.  And the people closest to me take the brunt of my acrimonious attitude.  I do my best to suppress it, but sometimes it comes bubbling out.  Usually in the form of silence.  Because I don't like yelling or fighting.  And sometimes it takes the form of watery eyes, because I am so upset over something that is so stupid, and I know it's stupid, and then I get mad at myself for being so stupid!

The bottom line is that the combination of steroids and hormones have put my brain out of whack.  And I hate it.  I mean if I am going to be mad, I should be mad about having to go through all of this cancer malarkey, not because I stepped on a toothpaste cap in the bathroom.  But alas, that is what is happening.  So my apologies in advance if I give you the stink eye for taking up too much room in the Target Dollar Spot with your cart.  Just know that I am 'roid raging and that deep down I want to throat punch you for spending too much time in front of the mini dry erasers that teachers love.

Oh, and the number one thing that makes me spiral out of control is when folks put their pictures into collages.  Seriously.  Stop using that god forsaken app.  I can't blow the pictures up when I am looking at them on Facebook.  So irritating because I can't see ANY of the pictures well.  Just.  Stop.

Ohio State 1994-1995.  Tracy, Rachel.Cyndi, Erin, me, Leslie.  Probably pregaming for dancing at Not Al's or Sloopy's.  And my jean vest is now back in style.

Me a week ago.  Raging because they were out of butterscotches.  But not because I have tubes coming out of my chest.  Priorities.  

No Glory

Ain't this the truth.  The mom does ALL of the grunt work and gets none of the glory.  This is totally the case for my mom, Carol.  I am a total lucky duck, because it is like I have my own home health nurse, except I don't have to pay her!  She actually pays to fly down and take care of me for weeks on end!  If you didn't already know, my mom is a retired nurse and at one time was an oncology nurse and herself a breast cancer patient.  So she gets it.  Maybe even a little too much. For instance, one time we went to lunch at Ruby Tuesdays because I had a gift card, a coupon, and I was Kodiak crushing on a steak from my 'roid rage.  (Bags of steroids that make me eat like a Kodiak Bear.)  Anyhoosikins, just as I was handing our waitress the coupon and getting ready to order the salad bar --with the best croutons in the universe-- in addition to my meat platter, ol' CB put the kabosh on that apparently bacteria infested salad plan.  No salad bar for me with my white blood cell count!  I wanted to argue.  I wanted to pull the "I'm 40 years old and can eat what I want" card.  But I knew it was no use.  It's impossible to win a healthcare argument with someone who quotes the Center for Disease Control on a daily basis.  Seriously, when brother Kurt and I were tots, she referred to pooping as a "bowel movement."  To preschoolers.  But what I heard was "bow-moo-men."  So we referred to turds as "bowmoomens."  Till the neighbor kids said "WTF are you talking about?"  Except not the WTF part.  Because our neighbors were the Klines.  And they are very Catholic.  And the Brubakers.  Not nearly as Catholic, but they had a Kool and the Gang record with the song "Celebration" on it and dancing in their living room to it was almost better than watching the "Dukes of Hazzard." And none of those kids knew what a "bowmoomen" was.

So I have grown up with my mother's medical jargon my whole life.  And if you ever had a medical professional for a parent, you never got to skip school.  Because you were "just fine" to go to school. None of this "making a doctor's appointment" business. No fooling them with fake sore throats and heart palpitations.  Because they would do a strep swab or an EKG in your family room.  And then say "you're fine."  Go to school.

The good news is that when your mother is a nurse with a career spanning through four different decades, you get all of your medical needs met.  Even before you know you are going to need them.  For example, my mom told me that she went to get her hair done and Desiree, her stylist, gave her a monetary donation to send my way for all of this cancer razzmatazz.  So instead of giving me the money, she went out and bought me things like Gas X, stool  (bowmoomen) softener, eye drops, Biotene, and nostril spray amongst other stuff.  I didn't know I was going to end up being desperate for these items, but slap my a$$ and call me Sally, I sho' nuff did!  I'm telling you, these things were lifesavers!  And reading teachers don't know anything about chemotherapy messing with your bowmoomens.  Good thing my madre did.  So thanks Desiree and mom for "keeping things moving!"

Nurse moms are really good at serving others.  It's been mostly my dad the past forty some years.  True story, I once was facetiming my parents and caught my mom seasoning my dad's food that she brought to him on a silver platter while he sat in his lazy boy watching airplane shows.  Uhhh, 1955 called and they want June Cleaver back....  But the past few months it has been me getting the silver platter treatment.  She not only serves me food in bed and in my recliner, she follows it up with massages to my arms, legs, and feet with Aquaphor and this really awesome smelling oil spray my friend Kelli bought for me.  And she does it for a really long time and is better than the Vietnamese nail techs at Pretty Nails!  Way better than my kids who make me pay them a quarter for rubbing my feet. They only last about 7 seconds. And they suck at it.  I'm telling you, they would never make it as Vietnamese nail techs.  Neither would my husband.  He rubs my feet when I ask him, but he squeezes them so hard that my metatarsals and phalanges clack together.   My mom however, does it perfect.  She also is the world's best back scratcher.  She even drives all the way through Cape Coral dodging snow birds and canals to pick me up Steak Gorgonzola from Olive Garden when that is the only thing I could possibly stomach eating.

Not only is she taking care of me, she is also helping to take care of the Triple Threat.  If you read my other blog, www.cjklausingfamily.blogspot.com , you know that building a life size replica of the Eiffel Tower out of toothpicks is an easier task.  She takes them to school, daycare, the park, and Culvers for ice cream.  All the things I couldn't do most of April, May, and June, when I was too sick to get out of bed.  I want to publicly thank my mom for doing tons of work with no glory.  Heck, I don't even have many pictures of her here during those months.  And I LOVE documenting our lives. So here are pictures of when my parents came down and took the kids to the beach.  I need to thank my Dad too.  His post is coming, but lets face it, my dad has gotten a lot of attention lately with his First Federal Bank marketing campaign!  He can wait a smidge.

Levi and Grandma Carol

Caroline and the Alligator I bought to ensure good behavior 

My famous Dad and part of his First Federal super model shoot 

And She Shall Be Called Kodiak

I just finished round number ten of chemo.  I like to call Taxol "baby chemo," because it is a walk in the park compared to the Adriamycin/Cytoxin.  The A/C would knock me out for a good 12 days.  Like being pregnant with a horrendous hangover plus the flu and the bubonic plague. Taxol just makes me really, really tired, but keeps me up all night with hot flashes, gives me neuropathy in my arms and legs, and makes me eat.  I'm talking eat like a sixteen-year-old football player during two-a-days.  Actually it is probably the bags of steroids that make me inhale food.  Whatever the case, I am none too pleased about it.  I have put on 15 pounds and am within four pounds of my giving birth weight.  It's like I swallowed two big bowling balls.  The first time I went in for chemo, the nurse looked right at me before she hooked me up and said, "Listen honey, just so you know, you aren't going to get skinny on this."  I should have believed her, but I didn't.  Because I wasn't eating a whole heckuva lot when I was sick.  But good Lord, you should see me now.

Two words.  Long Horn.  I am obsessed with eating the "Flo's Filet" off the Long Horn menu. I fail miserably at the cancer patient's vegan diet.  Because all I want to eat is steak.  I am a T.Rex with protein.  I seriously just googled "what is the largest meat eating animal" at midnight tonight because that is what I feel like.  The answer was a tie.  Between the Polar Bear and the Brown Bear.  Also known as the Kodiak.  So there you have it.  Kodiak Klausing.

So I think about being a fatso morning, noon, and night.  And I know it is dumb.  And I understand it is such a girl thing.  And I have WAY more serious things to be worried about.  Like dying.  But even though there is a real possibility of me croaking from this, I don't worry about it.  Because I could just as easily get hit by one of those shady meat trucks that sell steaks outta the back of them tomorrow.  So I exercise.  I wear my fitbit and track my steps.  And then I want to eat a cookie.  So I grow that double chin and eat a cookie like a mother....

If This Doesn't Just Tug at Your Heartstrings....

This is a picture my six-year-old Levi drew for me.  That is a picture of a blanket my college roomie, Erin, sent to me.  I use it when I am on the lazy boy recovering from chemo.  The message says "Mommey (sic) I hope you feel better."

Levi is not one to sit down and draw pictures.  He leaves that for his sisters.  His idea of doing an art project consists of pissing of his sisters while they are doing art projects.  But break my heart, He spent several seconds drawing me a picture of my blanket while I was wallering in the Lazy Boy attempting to recover from a drug known as the "red death."  People are always asking me how the kids are doing.   And I guess the boy is doing pretty good, because Levi still  follows me in the bathroom and asks important questions like "Does the tooth fairy bring baseballs AND money sometimes?  Because I know that some tooth fairies bring baseballs."  As you can tell, this was an urgent question.  Urgent enough that it could not wait  the 30 seconds it was going to take me to pee in peace.  Quick sidebar. Levi recently pulled out a not quite very wiggly bottom tooth when our friend, Javier, bet him 20 bucks that he wouldn't do it.  He did it. With a trail of O positive trailing down his chin.  Also, they were in Hooters.  Because where else should you take a six year old boy to eat and dig out a tooth?

But like they say, kids are resilient.  Sometimes you just gotta be tough.  Like on the Kindergarten Celebration of Learning Day.  It was on a Wednesday, so I changed my chemo time to make sure I could be in attendance.  When I talked to Levi's teacher, she laughingly informed me that Levi told her and the class that I didn't have any hair because I had bugs.  Like lice.  So I had to get rid of my hair, because "No one wants bugs crawling around on their head."  He confused what Clay told him, "Mommy has a sick bug that is going to make her hair come out" with lice.  Totally legit confusion.

So my baby boy had to be tough when it was time for me to leave.  Some other kids got to go home with their parents, but I had to go get chemo, so I couldn't take him with me.  I tried to explain that normally I would have been working, and he would have had to stay in school anyways.  But those big brown eyes welled up with tears and it took all I had not to fall apart.  The good news is that my kiddos are going to be too young to remember much of this.  It will just be me that remembers how Levi would lay down in bed with me when I was really sick and watch "Blaze and the Monster Machines."  

My Chemo BFF

So, I have already kinda sorta mentioned that I am the youngest, hottest, most stylish sweet thang in the chemo joint.  I might have totally told a lie .  On certain Wednesdays I am the hippest chick stuck to a chemo pole. But every other Wednesday the crown of cuteness goes to my chemo b. fry, Grace.  She hunkered down next to me in the blood and bodily-fluid resistant mint green recliners on my very first chemo treatment.  And she put on her fox socks, and I knew right then that I was no match for her in terms of youthfulness, looks, and style.  She definitely was the cutest  and youngest patient in that cancer carniceria.  I could tell  just by looking at her.  Also because patients have to state their birthdays infinity plus one times.  I had three years on her. Dang it!

Now remember, I just found out about my cancer and had just made it Facebook official.  I was racking up the "likes" and my attention whore-ometer had just measured a 9.9 on the Richter scale.  I was a category 5 attention whooo-re and was sickly relishing every bit of sympathy that came my way. And now it was obvious that I had cancer competition.  I mean, my first fifteen minutes there and I was already winning the sympathy vote from the senior citizens with my heartbreaking story.  "Advanced stage breast cancer, three little kids, school teacher, yada yada yada."  Anyhoo, I can't quite remember, because I was doped up on my first chemo cocktail, but I think it was my friend Amber who struck up a conversation with Grace.  I was probably being a snot because of the rivalry between us.  The rivalry that I cooked up in my mind the first five minutes we were seated next to each other.  The rivalry poor Grace did not know she was engaged in with a complete stranger.  I am so thankful Amber was nicer than me and started chatting, because Grace is such a precious gem!!

From the first conversation we had, I knew that Grace was going to be my chemo BFF.  And I told her that she was going to be my BFF.  Thank God she didn't fight me on that one, because I would have really been bored and without snacks for the past couple months.  But back to our rivalry that Grace did not know existed.  I started out our first conversation the way every mother starts out a conversation, by asking if she had any kids.  Mind you, I was expecting an answer like "Yes, I have a 7 year-old named Harper,"  or "No, I am child-free" because Grace looked way too put together to have a baby or a gaggle of kids.  She was also very cool.  So I figured she would have an only child with a trendy, hipster name like Harper.  And her only child had to be around the age of 7, because anything younger than that is a lot more work and again, this girl appeared to have her $h*& together, so no way could she have toddlers.  I was seriously gearing up to tell my favorite shocking mother story--how I birthed three single kids in 2.5 years after she was done telling me all about "Harper." But then she dropped a bombshell.  She said that she had FOUR babies age 5 and under!!  Say whaaaaaaaaaaa???!!!!!  She just totally one upped me in a category I didn't think I could possibly be one upped.  It's like we were in the Miss America pageant, and she had already demolished me in the evening gown and swimwear categories, but I was going to redeem myself in the talent competition by juggling three flaming swords.  And then Grace came strutting in in her sequined gown with FOUR flaming swords AND singing Yankee Doodle Dandy at the same time!  Thunder stolen.  Game over.  She won.  But I no longer cared about losing because OMG, she had cancer AND four babies and I just can't even.....

To make it even more obvious that we were destined to be besties, I found out that she was a teacher and we had a common principal.  So here we are, cancer patients, mothers, teachers, Cheetoh and chocolate lovers.  A match made in oncology heaven. Obviously we (I) dropped our rivalry and  know that God put us together in the same spot at the same time for a reason.  To be friends.  To support each other during a really rough time.  To have girl time talk for hours while poison is dripping into our veins.  Grace has the perfect name for her.  She is extremely gracious, kind, humble, patient, and calm.  She knows just the right words to say or write to make me feel better.  And she was always checking on me!  She makes me want to be a better person.  More like her.  And now I know that I sound like I have written marriage vows to her.  But tomorrow is her last session!  And I am really going to miss her!  And she gets to ring the bell!  (You get to ring the bell when you are all done with treatment.  It's kind of emotional for everyone. )  So congratulations Grace!  I look forward to Moms Night Out without the chemo pole!

Amber, the nice one.

My Wednesday View

You all know how I hate to brag...but I am the hottest, youngest, babe in this chemo joint.  I know this because I am the only person in the room that doesn't drive a Mercury Crown Victoria.  Also because patients have to state their birthdays to the nurses every other second.  I am the only one born in the 1970s.  Everyone else was born on the Banks of Plum Creek with Laura Ingalls Wilder.  But after five rounds of chemo and nine weeks of feeling like I am 103 years old, I have started to embrace the geriatric quirks of my chemo mates.  Like sucking on hard butterscotch candies and root beer barrels.  Mostly because I can taste the nasty saline flush in the back of my throat whenever the nurses mess with my port.  But partly because I now really just like butterscotches and their butterscotchy yellow wrappers.  (And I know you are all reminiscing back and thinking of where your grandparents kept their stash of butterscotches and barrels and those red cinnamon candies.  My Grandma Hess kept hers in a glass jar with an air tight seal on top of the TV that most likely was playing Hee Haw.  Or Lawrence Welk.) My cancer joint has a big honking jar of them right up front at the nurses station.  I grab about 12 of those suckers before I start my hours long session.  And then I get some more when I shuffle to the bathroom with my chemo pole.  It is during these bathroom walks that I get a chance to swap cancer stories with the others.  You know how old people love talking about their ailments and medications.  Well now I get to join them.  And I get to show off.  Usually I feel like I don't dress very cool.  But at Florida Cancer Specialists I am on fleek with the clothing trends.  That's because all of the other ladies are wearing gingham button down shirts with little sail boats and palm trees embroidered on them.  With Capri pants, natch.  I ordered myself Stitch Fix for my 40th birthday and have some new stylish threads.  But I am starting to bust out of them.  Unfortunately, my kind of chemo doesn't make me skinny.  OF COURSE NOT!  And I have gained over 10 lbs because of steroids and eating like a Tyrannosaurus Rex.  A Tyrannosaurus Rex with a hankering for butterscotches.    

Love this blanket Tami Tassler!  I had to wrestle it away from Caroline last week!

Buzzed

I went from butch to bald in one hot second.  Actually it took precisely 19 days after my first chemo treatment and WHAMMO, my hair came out.  Just like my hottie oncologist said it would.  It felt dead about a week after my first "red devil" chemo, and I could hear it "crunch."  I imagine it felt like what Christina Aguilera's bleach blonde hair weave must feel like.

My hair coming out was probably the most emotionally taxing issue I have dealt with thus far.  But not because I was going to be bald.  I couldn't care less about that because well, derby hats are adorable.  It was because I couldn't control it, and it was falling out so fast it was completely freaking me out and I wanted it gone.  Pronto.

I wanted to attend field day for Kate and Levi, my first grader and kindergartener.  That was a perk of having cancer, when I wasn't wasting away from the chemo, I was able to go to their school functions because I wasn't at work.  I knew my hair was starting to fall out pretty quickly, because my pillow was covered in my locks.  This girl just wasn't prepared for when it came out in the shower.  That was the horrifying part.  My arms looked like wookie arms.  Coated in my own highlighted tresses.  And it wouldn't come off!  It stuck to me like birthday cake and donut holes stick to my a$$.

I wrapped my head in a towel.  (Habit.  I still do this and I am completely bald.)  I proceeded to put  on my face and get ready for field day.  Then I took the towel off my head.  And I felt like throwing up a little in my mouth.  My receding hairline had receded all the way to the middle of my head. And there were bald spots everywhere.  And every time I touched my head, giant clumps would fall out.  Of course I couldn't stop touching my head and it was a big vicious circle, so I put on my stylish mom Merona dress from Target, a big hat, and hoped for no wind at field day.

Clay told me that he would just buzz my head.  He seriously thinks that because his sister is a hairstylist and that he could probably operate a Flowbee, it automatically makes him a professional.  However, I have seen his handy work.  And he is no Vidal Sassoon.  So I made him take me to Le Bijou salon in our neighborhood.  I just didn't want more hair all over the house AND a butchered and bloody bald noggin.  So my friend, Leslie, graciously buzzed my head.  For free.

But first we ate Burger King.  Because I have instituted a great plan of eating horrible fast foods and then associating it with bad things.  It has works like a charm.  Because any thought of a a burger makes me want to hurl.

But back to the buzzing.  It was so liberating.  I was a little teary during my Burger King meal because any sudden move and I would have hair everywhere.  So getting it off felt AWESOME.  Or ASSOME as my 1st grader spells it.  And when she cut my bangs I looked exactly like Lloyd Christmas from Dumb and Dumber.

Kate and Levi of course thought my bald head was hilarious, and Caroline hated it.  And voiced the fact that she hated it.  And continues to voice the fact that she hates it every.single.morning.

Sidenote.  It has now been about 5 weeks since I have gone cue ball, and I went to Levi's kindergarten celebration yesterday.  His teacher pulled me aside and told me that Levi told her I am sick and that I had a sick bug and that it is lice.  That is why I am bald.  Because nobody wants bugs in their hair!  She obviously knew what was going on with me, but thought it was hilarious when Levi was talking about my "head lice and hair bugs!"  So ASSOME.  The entire kindergarten thinks Levi's mom has lice.

Chopped

I had about a week to relish my long locks after my cancer diagnosis.  I literally had just spent the hundred bucks getting my hair highlighted two weeks prior.  And that almost didn't happen, because my beloved little five- year- old Princess Caroline had hijacked my checking account/debit card when she  decided to crack the parental controls code and buy 13 Barbie movies on her Kindle at 12.99 a pop.  Barbie Goes to Charm School, Barbie and the Island Princess, Barbie Rock and Royals, the list goes on.  Luckily my beautician is cool and takes Discover Card.  Caroline is still working off her spending spree.

So I had just brightened up my hair with some sun kissed blonde bleach, and my mom had just bought me a brand spanking new Chi hair straightener for my 40th birthday present.  Because I would never spend that kind of money on myself.  It wasn't cheap.  Even with a coupon and my birthday discount at Ulta.  And then mere days later I was told all of my hair would soon be gone. Figures. Go ahead and put that in your Alanis Morisette "Ironic" song pipe and smoke it.    Then take another toke.

I had a little less than a week to get an MRI, EKG, meet with a surgeon, oncologist, my students, principal, and keep on mothering.  Basically I had time to get my hair cut off on Monday afternoon.  And my beautiful hair stylist Nikki's salon wasn't open that day.  So she had me come over to her kitchen.  My sister-in-law Tia came with me and took pics. They drank wine and I couldn't.  Of course.  because I was getting my port put in the next morning.  And apparently you're not supposed to get drunk hours before surgery.

Luckily I wasn't really freaking out.  I was still in robot mode emotionally since my diagnosis.  Whatever.  I had looked butch before.  Especially from 1983-1986.  Social services should have been called on my mother for allowing such heinous haircuts.  I looked transgender before transgender was cool.  Target would have been the only public bathroom I would have been allowed to tinkle in.  I actually had big plans of recreating my rat tail and mullet hairstyles, but alas, I didn't want to interrupt my stylist's snipping.

1984ish.  Soon the mullet was cut off and I was left with a rat tail.

Monday April 11, 2016.  One week after diagnosis.  

I had big plans of being a martyr and coming full circle and donating my own locks of love.  Because my hair was long.  So I asked to donate it....and the response from Nikki was something like "Aww hell no.  This hair is way too processed and bleached!" But stated in a much nicer way.  So into the garbage it went.  Let me tell you that cutting off that much hair takes time.  And I kept telling her to keep going shorter.  I am soooooo glad I did.  I hope none of you EVER find yourself in this position, but if you do, CUT.IT.OFF.  It's horrifying when it starts coming out, and I can't imagine it being long and coming out.

Two hours later I had a pixie cut.  It didn't last long, and my brother Kurt put a side by side pic of me and Robin Wright Penn together comparing us.  He thought I should have known who her character was from House of Cards or Game of Cards or something like that.  But I have 3 kids and haven't watched TV in 7 years.  Many more people told me I looked like Kate from Jon and Kate Plus 8.  I wanted to throat punch them.  Lucky for Javier, Jamison, and Kim M., I held back!  They should probably get a gold medal for bravery though!

My sweet stylist Nikki was so nice to have me over to her home on her day off to do this.  She didn't even charge me--and that was more than just a snip of the split ends.  She is going to have some good juju coming her way!

I made by big haircut debut at the baseball field immediately after it was chopped.  The kids and Clay were already up there.  The first blessing I spotted was Caroline.  Her reaction was priceless.  She saw me, stared at me, figured out it was finally me, and said..."What the what! I like your hair long Mom!"  Kate was super sweet and told me I was still pretty, and Levi laughed.  Even Clay didn't recognize me at first.  But the best were the facial expressions of other moms at the ball park.  Most people did not know about my cancer diagnosis yet, so when I showed up looking like Kate Gosselin, they were a little taken aback.  But tried to pretend they loved my new do.